


something i can treasure

by theredtailedhawkwithjewelsforeyes



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: ! - Freeform, Angst and Humor, Compulsion, Fluff and Humor, Kleptomania, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pre-Relationship, geralt is exasperated, ish?, jaskier is jaskier, jaskier isn't great at the whole possessions thing, thief jaskier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:20:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22367047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theredtailedhawkwithjewelsforeyes/pseuds/theredtailedhawkwithjewelsforeyes
Summary: Jaskier would not call himself a thief. But, well- he is elbow-deep in someone’s saddlebags, pulling up handfuls of pretty little bottles. They’re all filled up with jewel-bright potions, corked delicately, and they almost seem to hum in his hands.Then, suddenly-There’s the sharp point of a sword at his neck.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 214
Kudos: 2357
Collections: Best Geralt, GERALT AND JASKIER ARE FUCKING GAY





	something i can treasure

**Author's Note:**

> no one asked for this

Jaskier wouldn’t call himself a thief. 

It’s- well, it’s a terribly unromantic word. It has all sorts of negative connotations. What Jaskier  _ is _ is a bard whose fingers are occasionally a bit sticky- a lover who might liberate a few of your prettier jewels. He likes the thrill of taking things, of pressing them close to his chest and thinking: “yes, you’re mine now”. 

He isn’t a thief because he doesn’t take things to sell. He takes things to have, and what’s wrong with that? Some things are so lovely they should be shared. Some things are so lovely Jaskier can’t resist them. His clothes are pretty silks and when he lies in bed at night, there is a pair of diamond earrings clutched tight in his hand. 

(He did not grow up poor. He grew up rich velvets and silks and angry, angry, angry. But he has spent so long with nothing in his belly that that is only a memory now.)

He has a set of earrings from a lady with pretty eyes. Three bronze coins from a man too drunk to swing at Jaskier. A plate from an inn he’d stayed in. A silk blouse, folded neatly. Little odds and ends, all tucked carefully away in his bag. 

Jaskier would not call himself a thief. But, well- he  _ is _ elbow-deep in someone’s saddlebags, pulling up handfuls of pretty little bottles. They’re all filled up with jewel-bright potions, corked delicately, and they almost seem to hum in his hands. 

Then, suddenly- 

There’s the sharp point of a sword at his neck. 

Jaskier is familiar with swords being pointed at him, at this point, but it still makes him yelp- he doesn’t drop the little bottles, though, because those are his now. They are pretty and so they are his. There’s a sword pointed at his neck. 

“I can explain,” he says, charmingly. 

“Hmm,” grunts the person with the sword. Not verbose- Jaskier can work with that. He wriggles his way around so he’s facing the man, carefully keeping the sword  _ not _ touching him. 

Okay. Well, this man is fucking enormous, first of all. Tall, yeah, but his  _ muscles _ are- they’re unnecessary. He has three Jaskiers packed into his frame. His hair is white- like, properly white, even though he doesn’t look like an old man, and his eyes are pretty much in shadow so Jaskier just focuses on the jaw. It’s a very square jaw. He has nice lips. 

_ Don’t fall in love with the man about to kill you, _ Jaskier chides himself, not for the first time. “I can explain,” he repeats, sliding all his new pretty potions into his pockets because his lack of self preservation is worthy of a sonnet. “I thought it was my, uh- blood splattered saddlebag, what in the hell, why-” Okay. Worrisome. He can still totally work with that. “I’m, you see, a sheep farmer, and-” 

Tall dark and scary sheaths his sword. He’s basically got Jaskier boxed in in the corner of the stables anyway, and again he is fucking enormous, so the sword was really just overkill. “Shut up and give me my shit back, thief.”

Jaskier prickles. “I’m not a  _ thief _ ,” he says, hotly. “I’m- hey!” He’s being hoisted by the back of his shirt like he weighs fucking nothing, which is just uncivilized, and one enormous hand is patting him down. Potions found, Jaskier is turned upside down and shaken. His new prizes drop to the hay strewn floor, along with an enchanting little rock he’d found by the road, a dried flower missing a good portion of its petals, and three gold coins. Jaskier squawks indignantly. “Stop it, that’s mine! Let go of me, you great brute-” 

He is dropped onto the ground. It hurts. Jaskier wastes half a second feeling sorry for himself before he reaches out a hand and snatches back his things. 

“Don’t do that,” says the man, sounding a little surprised- he’s a little more in the light now, so Jaskier can see his gold eyes narrow. There’s a little wolf’s head pendant hanging from his neck. 

“Son of a bitch,” Jaskier says cheerfully, because he’d definitely been caught stealing from a Witcher  _ by _ a fucking Witcher. Still.  _ Still _ . He is holding all of his things in his hands, clutched tight like a string of pearls. He can totally talk his way out of this. “I’m not a thief,” he repeats, sticking his nose up in the air a little and shifting so he’s crouched on the balls of his feet. “I really am  _ not _ . I’m a bard, actually. Quite a good one too. Are you a Witcher? You’ve got the spooky eyes, so-” 

The Witcher makes a frustrated noise and grabs Jaskier’s gesticulating wrist before he even sees him move- he squeezes, hard, until Jaskier lets go of his things with a yelp. He tries to snatch at them again, but they’re already being scooped up and deposited into the Witcher’s pocket. Fuck. 

“Now, listen,” he says hastily- the Witcher is already turning on his heel and ambling out the door, which is good because it means he won’t be getting beat up by a mutant and bad because- well. It’s bad for several reasons. “No, hey, listen- Witcher, can I call you Witcher? I know a song about you, I’m pretty sure, do you want to hear it?” 

“No.” 

He sings several bars of Song of the White Wolf anyway. The Witcher seems unimpressed. Jaskier slinks away to mope. 

-

The thing about Jaskier is that he’s a bit like a magpie- if he sees something pretty and shiny, he will be absolutely consumed by the need to take it. If it’s mysterious, it just adds to the charm. 

Therefore: those fucking potion bottles are not leaving his damn mind. 

They clinked so nicely in his hands. They were practically luminous in the dark. He desperately wants to have a little taste of one, maybe, or just- you know. Just touch them again. 

So he goes to find the Witcher. It doesn’t take a long time- he just heads to a dark corner in the inn.

“Hello,” he says cheerfully, strumming out a bright major chord on his lute. The Witcher looks unimpressed, setting down the ale in front of him with a dull thud. 

“Thief,” he says. Jaskier presses a hand to his heart. 

“You wound me. I told you I’m not a thief, I’m a  _ bard _ . Anyways-” he slides onto the bench next to the Witcher, giving him his most charming beam. “As a bard, I’m always one for an adventure. Got any to tell?” 

“Fuck off,” growls the Witcher- he doesn’t sound particularly angry, it’s just his voice is so low it’s always a rumble. He mostly sounds bored, at the moment. 

“Rude,” says Jaskier pleasantly, because setting an example is important. “Very rude. I don’t see anything wrong with chronicling your heroic witchery, do you? What’s your name, anyway?” 

A very long pause. Jaskier becomes aware he’s not going to get an answer, and so he sighs gustily and begins to play the Fishmonger’s Daughter. The inn is moderately receptive. The Witcher is not. He gets through four verses, knuckles slowly whitening on his mug, before he finally pushes back from the bench and stands. Jaskier jumps up with him, ceasing his playing much to the disappointment of some rowdier patrons. 

“Go away,” snaps the Witcher. He can’t just call him the Witcher in his head- surely that’s rude. Wolfy? Sexy? Sexy wolf? Sounds wrong. Jaskier pouts, trotting to keep up. 

“Just- just, you know, it’s just your name. What’s wrong with knowing your name? It’s probably lovely, don’t be embarrassed-” 

“Geralt,” says Geralt. Jaskier beams, then stops beaming, then starts beaming again. The Butcher of Blaviken! If anything, that’ll be a fun story to tell. To no-one, because Jaskier doesn’t actually have much in the way of company apart from lovers, but he talks to himself plenty. “Go away.” 

-

Jaskier does not go away. He has several talents and all of them could at best be called irritating- the useful one in this case being latching onto to someone and not leaving them alone. 

A problem: Geralt is, of course, wary of being stolen from. He keeps his bags close and has threatened Jaskier with his sword, like, five times. 

Not really a problem: danger. They get kidnapped by elves and Jaskier writes a truly inspired song about it. He also gets a little bruised up and also he almost dies, but it’s- you know, it’s a give and take. Life’s like that. 

Another problem, unfortunately: Geralt will not fucking stop calling him a thief. 

“I’m not a  _ thief _ ,” Jaskier informs him for probably the fiftieth time. The effect is slightly negated by the emerald necklace Geralt is holding up, taken from the pocket in his bag where he keeps his jewelry. “Oh, don’t, it’s just  _ pretty _ . And it was practically lying out, you know, it- it’s hardly stealing. It’s liberation of underappreciated jewels.” 

“It’s stealing, Jaskier,” says Geralt, unimpressed. He seems a little less reluctant to let Jaskier travel with him, probably because it’s obvious he’s never going to get rid of him through force, and last night he’d let Jaskier wash gross monster blood out of his hair so that’s definitely progress. But he still won’t leave his damn bag alone. He sleeps on it. It’s awful. 

(Not that Jaskier is just sticking to him for the pretty potion bottles. It’s a factor, sure, but Geralt also has an incredibly fascinating life and Jaskier has been terribly bored for a long time.) 

“It’s not,” Jaskier says, ineffectively. “It’s just- it’s my necklace now, is all.” 

“That’s not how things  _ work _ ,” says Geralt, visibly frustrated. 

“Oh, and you’re so well versed in the laws of man,” Jaskier snaps, snatching his necklace back and stuffing it moodily back into its pocket. Geralt opens his mouth and then closes it. It gives Jaskier a nice, smug feeling. 

-

He’s gotten in trouble more than once for his proclivities, sexual and otherwise. It’s just his bad luck- or perhaps proof of his own idiocy, but he’s going to strike that one out for the sake of his pride- that he got caught sneaking out of the son of a lord’s room, a particularly dashing feathered hat clutched in his hands. Could he be a hat person? It’s unlikely, but if anything would make it happen it would be this lovely thing. They accuse him of stealing from the lord’s son, and his big mouth opens and says: 

“Well, I slept with him first .” 

So now he’s on his knees- literally, for real, on his fucking knees, he’d been tossed down there like some sort of idiot and they won’t let him scramble to his feet- in front of the lord. The lord in question is not nearly as attractive as his son, and he’s red-faced with rage, gesturing with Jaskier’s new hat in his hand. It’s getting all crumpled, and the feather is flopping about, and Jaskier really just can’t tear his eyes away. 

Geralt bursts through the door. He’s followed by several guards, all looking too intimidated to do anything but shout, and the room falls silent at once. Jaskier takes the opportunity to scramble to his feet and plant himself firmly behind his Witcher, still glaring balefully at his hat. He gathers a loose fistful of Geralt’s shirt. 

“Ah, Geralt- Geralt, Geralt,  _ Geralt _ , lovely friend of mine. Can you explain to these fine men that there was a misunderstanding?” 

“There was a misunderstanding,” Geralt intones. His sword remains in his sheath at his back, but Jaskier can see his right hand twitching just slightly for it every time anyone moves. It’s very gratifying. 

“There was no misunderstanding,” the lord booms out, looking rather pale and rather murderous. “Your bard slept with my son and stole his possessions!” 

Geralt closes his eyes for a long moment. It looks like he’s trying to meditate. “Not the  _ time _ , Geralt,” Jaskier hisses out through his beam- he drapes himself over the Witcher’s back, giving the lord his best innocent look. “Can you prove it?” 

There is a wordless roar of anger from the lord, and all at once the guards jump forward, and Jaskier is, it must be said, rather fast, but Geralt’s right beside him. His hair is streaming heroically. “How often do you run away from a fight?” Jaskier asks him, curiously, and Geralt growls and pushes him on faster with a hand to his lower back. 

It’s a lovely chase. They go tearing through half the village, and when Jaskier stumbles over a cobblestone Geralt just picks him up like he weighs nothing and dives the both of them into a little alleyway. The guards rattle right past them, and Jaskier muffles his gasping laughter in his own forearm. His lip is split, dripping blood down his chin, and he dabbles at it with his sleeve. 

“I told you,” Geralt says, voice tight, “not to get into any trouble.” 

“That’s never been my strong suit,” Jaskier admits. “Anyways, I never meant to sleep with him, he was just-  _ oh _ , Geralt, the  _ hat _ !” 

Geralt stares at him incredulously. “The  _ what _ ?” 

“My hat,” says Jaskier woefully- then he waves a hand, because he knows how Geralt always gets about things like that. “Or- his hat. They took it back. Do you know I thought I might be a hat person?” 

It’s undignified for people to roll their eyes, but Geralt is often undignified. “Buy a hat, then.” 

That makes Jaskier stop short. Buying a hat- well. “But it wouldn’t have the history!”

“Just stop fucking stealing things!” Geralt explodes, with quite a lot of force. He looks fucking  _ pissed _ , eyes darker than usual. It rather looks like he’s been keeping this in for a while. “I don’t understand you. You have plenty of things, you have coin enough to buy what you want. This only get you into trouble, and now you’ve involved  _ me _ in it. Just keep your damn fingers out of other people’s shit.” 

Jaskier blinks up at him, eyes wide- he feels rather hurt. It is, he’s well aware, a stupid thing to feel, but. He finds his hands have gone automatically to the diamond earring tucked away in his pocket, rubbing rubbing rubbing. 

(When he was six years old, he’d taken a pretty necklace from his mother’s jewelry box and been punished so soundly he remembers it like it’s fresh. When he was ten, he’d been sent to boarding school- uniforms pre-owned, not his to keep. Bowls and beds reused over and over and over. When he was twelve, he’d run away. Rags on his back, barefoot in the winter. Stolen lute he’d barely been able to play for the ice in his blood.)

He likes to have things. He likes to feel them solid in his hands and know: this belongs to me, me, me. Not forever, but for just a moment- there’s a warmth to it, a connection formed. It is his. 

Right now: the Witcher is his friend, if reluctantly. He could leave at any moment. 

Jaskier likes to have things, but he doesn’t want to be alone. 

“Okay,” he says. 

-

His fingers itch with it. 

He wants, wants, wants, and he cannot have. He has always wanted what he cannot have. There is a diamond sparkling in the hair of this noble lady, a coin spilling out of a purse. Glittering all around him. Not his- he can’t have it. 

He plays instead. His songs are his own, at least- he plays old ones, makes new ones, plucks and sings until his throat is sore. He’s being annoying and he knows it, but he always knows when he’s being annoying and he never is able to turn it down. 

And- he picks up little things. Flowers from the side of the road in great bunches. Blades of grass painstakingly woven into a bracelet that he presents proudly to Geralt- Geralt doesn’t wear it and so he tucks it into his bag with everything else. Pebbles, little sticks in interesting shapes. 

Jaskier has always wanted what he cannot have. He eyes Geralt’s pouch, listens to the little bottles clinking within. Grits his teeth against it until he can feel them straining. He wants them, he wants them, he wants them. 

And then- 

And then Geralt is killing a monster, business as usual. Jaskier is left behind in the trees with Roach, and Roach is wearing her saddlebags. Geralt leaves them in the room or brings them with him, always. 

He wants, he wants, he wants. 

Jaskier remembers how those potions had felt in his hands, and then without meaning to he  _ is _ feeling them- he’s carefully pulled them out, arranged them all in front of him in the moss. They’re practically glowing. He holds one- bright red. He wants to taste it. He feels electric with it. He feels like there are sparks traveling from the tips of his fingers to his toes. He wants to taste it, he wants to have it, he wants to keep it keep it  _ keep it _ . 

Jaskier walks away, instead. He’s coiled tight as a spring and he walks away and he sits, alone, under a tree. It’s dark in the forest and his fingers itch and he knows that if he took that potion he would never be forgiven. 

It is several hours under this tree, lute clutched tightly in his hands, before there is the sound of a twig snapping. He looks up the see Geralt, Roach’s reins loosely in his gloved fist, a thoughtful look on his face like he’s solving a puzzle. A moment later, he’s being tossed the saddle bag. There is the sound of little bottles clinking within. 

“Just hold it,” the Witcher grunts. “If you sell anything or break anything, I’ll skin you. If you drink anything, you’ll probably die.” 

Jaskier starts, slowly, to smile. 

-

Jaskier wouldn’t call himself a thief. Jaskier is not a thief. Jaskier is a bard, and he likes to have pretty things.

He has little bottles in his bag, each filled with bright potions- they chime together by his rocks, by the jewelry he keeps safely hidden. 

And: 

He has a Witcher at his side. Sometimes reluctantly, often gruff, but Jaskier is allowed to chatter to him, scrub the guts from his hair, write songs. He is allowed to sit pressed up close, restless hand tapping on that rock-steady thigh. 

He cannot have everything. But he can have this. 

**Author's Note:**

> geralt voice: why would you kill jaskier theres no reason for it hes just a bard  
> the lord: he Slept With My Son and Stole Things  
> geralt:  
> geralt: yeah. probably shouldve expected that 
> 
> no one asked for this but i couldnt stop thinking abt it so i wrote it!!! i hope u like it 
> 
> if u DID pls send me a prompt or an ask over at redjewelsforeyes.tumblr.com!!
> 
> ALSO if u liked this please leave a comment i will brush a dry kiss across your cheek- it'll be chaste, but you'll feel the mark of it like a brand


End file.
